


Interlude (London)

by Poose



Series: Technosocial [5]
Category: Original Work, Social Network (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, Food, Future Fic, M/M, Multi, POV Original Character, Rimming, Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fits into the Pacific Time 'verse (end of Chapter Four) and is told from Peter's POV.</p><p>FAIRLY OBVIOUS WARNING: NOT OTP FRIENDLY.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liketogetlost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketogetlost/gifts), [ymorton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Pacific Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/206446) by [Poose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose). 



They were meant to be going out for dinner, but Eduardo has not even bothered to get dressed. He is still wearing the hotel bathrobe, sprawled on his stomach, kicking his feet idly up and down against the mattress.

The room is strewn with handled bags, from department stores and museum gift shops. Nothing has been taken out yet, save for some toiletries from Space NK and two imported magazines.

He undressed leisurely, attentively, while Peter uncorked a bottle of Petit Syrah and let it breathe. Eduardo took a glass in to the bathroom with him.

The door was open, and in the mirror he could see Eduardo peel off his underwear and toss them on the floor. Peter watched as he slid under the water, gingerly at first, and then with a contented sigh.

The bottle was down to its final third by the time Eduardo got out of the tub.

He has been lying on the bed, eating chocolate from the Harrods' food hall -- single origin, 80% cacao, with pink Himalayan sea salt and roasted pistachio toffee -- and flipping through the stack of books he got, some at Waterstone's and still more from the National Maritime Museums.

"Do you want to go out?" he asks, watching the hypnotic seesaw motion of Eduardo's feet, the flashes of his thighs underneath the bathrobe.

"Hm?" Eduardo answers, twisting his head to look at Peter.

"Out. Dinner?" he asks, once more.

He is a bit distracted, looking at Eduardo's ankles, the soles of his feet.

Eduardo shrugs.

"Is it still wet out?" he asks.

"This is England," Peter answers. "It's always wet."

Eduardo yawns into his fist and turns back to his book without answering. After a pause he says, "Yeah, okay. I'll get dressed in a minute."

Eduardo scratches idly at his hip, on top of the bathrobe.

Peter clears his throat and tips the last of the wine into his glass, swallows it down in two hurried gulps.

Once he starts looking at Eduardo's backside, it is only a matter of time before he wants to put his mouth on it.

Eduardo shifts against the bed, his legs open in a narrow V, feet hanging off the side of the bed.

(He has very long legs, like a colt, but he likes the short style of trousers you can get in the UK,  and has bought at least four pairs from Harvey Nicks .)

One he starts looking at Eduardo, eyes lingering on the rounded swell of his arse, imagining the smooth skin underneath his robe, the place where his thighs meet his buttocks, that perfect crease of golden skin -- well, then he does not want to eat dinner, really, anymore. 

"We could order in," he suggests, to the soles of Eduardo's feet.

"Could," Eduardo says, sitting up on his elbows and sucking chocolate off his thumb.

Peter walks over to the window, lifts the edge of the curtain.

Of course, it is raining. It's _England_ , that's what it does. Keeps the place green and pleasant, more or less. Not that London is either of those things, per se. More than the vertical scrap of land he and Eduardo inhabit, he supposes. Though the rain is pretty much the same, a constant.

As a rule, Eduardo gets tetchy when it is overcast, positively droopy during the wet season.

Peter carries an umbrella wherever they go.

Eduardo does not like to get wet, even in the few short steps from taxi to entryway.

Which is a damn shame, because when Eduardo gets wet, he looks dead sexy.

His hair is damp from the bath, wispy on the back of his neck.

He is still warm, when Peter rests a hand on his shoulder.

He positively radiates heat.

Eduardo looks up at him and kicks his feet once more.

"Thought we were planning on going out tonight," he says, with a subtle question in his voice.

Peter sits down next to him, shifting the pile of books.

He rubs the center of his back, and then leans over and drops a kiss on his shoulder.

Some nights he is willing to share Eduardo -- though not completely, as it were -- but tonight does not feel like one of those nights.

"Tomorrow?" he says, spreading his fingers over Eduardo's shoulder blade and feeling him tense and then relax, his mouth curling into a smug grin.

He does not answer.

The beautiful thing about Eduardo is his silent acquiescence.

How the most subtle shift in the artful arrangement of his limbs is enough to indicate that he is willing.

It makes Peter's breath catch, as he moves his hand across Eduardo's back, dipping lower on each pass, until his fingers are just grazing that perfect swell of arse cheek, and Eduardo parts his legs, so minutely as to almost be imperceptible, and that tiny motion sends shock waves of arousal all through him.

Eduardo is golden, and beautiful, and he wants to explore him, thoroughly and anew, every single time they have sex. 

"Mmm," is Eduardo's only answer, as he turns back to his magazine and his chocolate with practiced indifference.

Peter draws up the hem of the robe, hand skirting over Eduardo's thighs as he noses against his neck.

Eduardo breaks off a piece of his chocolate and puts it in Peter's mouth.

"You're supposed to let it dissolve, that's what the lady at the shop said," Eduardo tuts, when Peter crunches it between his molars.  


He grins, soft and wide, and licks a smear off his thumb before turning the page of his magazine.

Peter swallows.

He is exceedingly patient, insofar as he knows how to sit still and wait, and wait, for the perfect moment at when to strike -- be it to make an eleventh-hour call to buy or sell, or the exact right millisecond of a moment to send a squash ball ricocheting across court lines, or to claim Eduardo from someone else's handsy embrace on a dance floor.

It is never soon enough for Peter, though he knows Eduardo likes it.

He likes to feel beautiful and he likes to play games.

Peter plays along, but no one else is allowed to fuck him.

There are some lines he will not cross, and those lines begin and end in the waxed expanse of skin he is stroking, feeling Eduardo start to contract and open, tiny shudders of pleasure that belie his calm expression.

His skin may be soft, but Eduardo is like filigree sheathed in steel. The alchemy of unlocking Eduardo is never difficult, though. It takes nothing but soft words and time.

Peter is plenty patient.

As is Eduardo, who is flipping pages, unmoved by Peter's fingers tracing lines along the fold of his rear.

He tastes like dark chocolate, when Peter ducks underneath his mouth to kiss him. Eduardo kisses back, quietly.

His mouth tastes like chocolate and tannin, but the rest of him tastes faintly of bath salts -- of currant and black pepper and green leaves.

Peter does not remove Eduardo's bathrobe, but pushes it up so it bunches above his narrow waist. He works the base of Eduardo's spine with his thumbs and licks him from there to his balls, over and over again until he opens, not just his arse but his insides, and he comes soon enough with a sob into his folded arms.

Then he rolls Eduardo onto his back and kisses him as he presses inside, one leg stretched over his arm, folding him in half until Eduardo's stomach muscles clench up and he thrashes against the pillow, teeth worrying his heavy bottom lip, water seeping out from his eyelashes as he comes a second time with a moan and a heaving sigh.

Only then does Peter let go, when he has made Eduardo come twice, cry out twice, dig his nails into his shoulders twice, say his name -- well, _dozens_ of times, raggedy and desperate -- only when Eduardo has flung back his head and said  _ohgodohgodohgod_ and suddenly his arse becomes tight and loose, all at once, and he thrusts back, pulling Peter in as deep as he'll go with his hands gripping tight so that every motion drags them closer, only  then will he bury himself up to the hilt and let himself revel in Eduardo's arse enough to come. 

The next morning Eduardo only picks at his brioche, though he drinks two espressos right in a row.

They go to the Saatchi gallery, after that, via taxi.

Eduardo has bought a coat, gray-blue with wide lapels, that makes him look boyish.

He keeps it on inside. Peter drapes his own peacoat over his arm.

They look at sculpture, soundscapes, nonrepresentational paintings.

Eduardo stands in front of each piece for the requisite amount of time, long enough to feign polite interest, but Peter knows he finds art tedious. He is the impatient one, of the two of them.

They skip lunch in favor of a walk along the Thames.

The wind whips up leaves as they walk.

It really is a beautiful city, for all its faults, for all its failings.

Peter has never considered himself an expatriate.

He is a citizen of an empire that has swelled and contracted, taking the whole world with it.

Hong Kong has changed, since 1997, and he is not sure how much longer he wants to stay. Ideologically, of course, he detests the PRC.

He comes back often enough to see that London has changed as well.

The world is angrier than he remembers it.

It's like the seventies all over again, in some ways. Or the eighties, which is old enough to remember properly.  


They have their hands in their pockets as they walk along the river, and then take a taxi back to the hotel, to retrieve their things, and then a train takes them to Bray for dinner.

They have rented a suite.

Eduardo goes for a swim and a treatment.

Peter orders a pot of tea and reads the Financial Times on the couch.

"Peter," he hears, from a fog of sleep and spittle.

"Hmph," he answers, halfheartedly.

"If you want to take a shower you need to wake up," Eduardo says, from over him.

He pushes up off the couch and looks around.

The sun has dipped below the horizon.

"Shit," he says, rubbing his his over his face, "shit, sorry."

Eduardo smiles, his eyes sparkling.

"What?"

"Go and look in the mirror."

The newsprint has transferred itself to his right cheek, a barely discernible block of text about the opposition.

He uses Eduardo's face scrub to get it off, in the shower.

Eduardo is mostly dressed, when he comes back, his shirt still open at the collar and two ties stacked one atop the other around his neck.

"Which one?" he says, holding up the short ends.

Peter thinks for a moment, before pointing at the green one.

Eduardo holds it thoughtfully, between his fingers, smoothing over the silk, before starting to tie the other option.

Peter dries his hair as he watches him.

"Have I failed miserably?" he asks.

Eduardo's mouth is parted in concentration as he loops the fabric around his neck.

Peter comes to stand behind him, the palms of his hands hovering for a millisecond before cupping Eduardo's shoulders.

"You're going to get me all wet," Eduardo chides, nudging Peter back with his bottom.

Peter squeezes him there.

Eduardo cocks an eyebrow at him, in the mirror.

"You had better put some clothes on, I'm pretty sure they have a strict policy against not wearing pants."

"Trousers," Peter says, kneading him through the fabric.

Eduardo makes noises of protest, but he does not pull away.

Peter keeps his coat in front of him as they slide into the back of another taxi.

He briefly entertains the thought of pulling Eduardo between his legs and petting him through his briefs.

If the tasting menu wasn't a four-hour commitment, he just might.

Peter's absolute and utter favourite thing to do with and to Eduardo is to get him hard and keep him that way, driving him to the brink of orgasm as many times as he can bear to do it.

The ride is brief, but his erection has mostly flagged by the time they pull up to the restaurant.

Normally Peter would distrust the sommelier, but here he is in complete confidence of Heston's pairings. They entrust themselves to the chef, who does not disappoint.

It is a perfect progression: inventive, astonishing.

Eduardo eats thoughtfully.

Every bite is considered.

They speak in hushed voices to match the tones of the waiters.

It is like being in church.

Magic is in the air.

Something more than the white starched tablecloths and geometrical place settings.

They eat a meal that makes no sense, like a surrealist poem.

Everything is explainable, yet shrouded in mystery.

Aspics, gelees, foams, perfumed air and lobes of fat.

Snails, air-dried ham, eels, caviar, rabbit confit, halibut.

Sparkling rose to single estate Cabernet to cognac to coffee.

Nose to tail eating, for four hours of reverential silence.

They walk back to the hotel, even though it is raining.

Peter holds the umbrella. 

Eduardo turns on the lamps but not the overhead lights and then pours them both a scotch. He takes his into the tub with him. Peter loosens his tie and puts his feet up, his hands folded across his stomach.

It is a night to sip a drink and to be quiet and ruminate, reflect.

He does that -- not thinking, precisely, but relaxing into a replay of the evening, fixing the details in his mind even as he imagines flavours and textures and presentations.

A meal is odd, insofar as it lingers on the tongue for nothing but a few seconds before passing into the gut and into memory. He stares at the ceiling and thinks about the salmon (truly astonishing) and the snails (he's had better) and the future of molecular gastronomy.

He wants to take Eduardo to Spain, to eat at El Bulli, once it reopens --  _if _ it reopens. Blumenthal has nothing on Adria, truth be told, even though they work in the same idiom. Peter still sometimes thinks about the Parmesan granita he had there in '99, two years after they got that third Michelin star.

God, that was spectacular -- airy and dense at the same time, with that tongue-prickling umami particular to aged cow's milk.

But now the stars don't matter: the doors are shut. It's a dying system, the Michelin guide, according to Jay Rayner -- antiquated and unimaginative.

(Then again, Rayner does write for the bloody Guardian, which he considers fit only to wrap chips in, Sunday supplements aside.)

From the bathroom, he can hear Eduardo turning on the tap for more hot water. He likes it near scalding. When they take baths together he will let Eduardo get in first and spend twenty minutes marinating in water hot enough to peel off the top layer of your skin, and then when it is a more reasonable temperature he will get in the tub with him, where they will sit facing one another, drinking wine from tumblers, and he will rub his thumb along the instep of Eduardo's foot, where the skin has grown rough and wrinkled from too much time in the water.

Even Eduardo's feet are exquisite.

He likes to run his open mouth across his instep, scraping Eduardo with his teeth, and then pulling his legs up, over his shoulders, and breathing against his mouth until his eyes are dark and he looks drugged.

The water is draining and the door opens with a puff of steam.

Peter coughs.

Eduardo is golden pink, a towel slung low around his long waist.

It is a glorious sight.

He strides over to where Peter is slumped in the armchair and works a thigh between his legs, parting them still further.

They do not say anything to one another beyond the exchange of hot huffs of breath between their mouths, not quite kissing.

Peter licks Eduardo's neck, and gasps when Eduardo undoes his belt, his flies, and pulls out his hardening cock and starts to stroke him to full arousal.

Eduardo stands up and lets the towel fall to the ground.

Peter runs his eyes up and down the length of Eduardo's body before reaching for the handle of his hipbones and pulling him close. 

Eduardo is fully naked and Peter is fully clothed, and the contrast is maddeningly hot, almost unbearably so, even more so when Eduardo straddles him in the chair and smooths lube onto his cock and then sits down on him so slowly that he cannot help but piston his hips up hard, even before Eduardo is fully open.

He groans, a short stutter of pain, but he doesn't back off.

Peter cradles his lower back in his hands and helps him ease down again.

His thighs are quaking from the exertion as he starts to move, up and down and back to front,

He makes love to Eduardo's neck with his lips as Eduardo grinds down on him, at first quiet and then progressively louder.

Peter kisses him open mouthed, their tongues flicking against one another as Eduardo's rhythm starts to falter and Peter takes over, a hand on each rounded arse cheek as he pulls Eduardo onto his cock and then releases him.

Eduardo gets louder with every snapping motion of his hips, his eyes fluttering shut, his hands on Peter's shoulders, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows over and over.

Peter shifts his position on the chair, angling for Eduardo's prostate, and when he spits out a breathy  _oh hell_ he uses his hands to bounce him up and down until Eduardo whimpers, and then grimaces, and then, finally, at long last, snarls at the air and clamps his teeth down on Peter's trapezius muscle and comes with a wet cry.

Peter gentles him through it. Eduardo trembles when he comes, like all his muscles cease to function all at once.

He holds him there, rocking into him gently, hands on his arse, buried all the way inside, until Eduardo starts to whimper and babble _yes_ and _no_ and  _please_ and  _too much too much too much._

With him there is hardly ever such a thing as  _too much._

Eduardo comes again, dry, and Peter comes for the first time, spilling hot and generously inside of him.

They stay there until Peter's cock slips out, soft, and he can feel wet drips of come leaking out of Eduardo's arse onto his thighs, still clad in their 100 weight worsted.

Eduardo grins, a little sheepishly, but they do not talk.

They do not break the spell of quietude, merely move from armchair to the necessities of the toilet to the bed where they fall asleep, back to chest, Peter's arm wrapped around Eduardo's.

It is an altogether magical night. 


	2. Chapter 2

Eduardo is sprawled out asleep when he wakes up the next day, the barest hint of a hangover hanging over him, though by the time he has rolled out of the bed, trotted into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, examined the top of his head for thinning hair, taken a shower that is Eduardo-temperature, which is to say, scalding fucking hot, called for room service, necked three nurofen, and settled himself at the table with four perfectly folded newspapers and a cup of tea -- by that point, it has pretty much dissipated.

He is on the third cup by the time Eduardo stumbles out of bed and goes for a piss.

At all other hours of the day Eduardo glides, where other people walk.

Not in the mornings, though, when he is shockingly clumsy, and trips over his own feet to get to the table, where there is coffee waiting for him in a silver carafe.

He leans over Peter's shoulder to get it and then flops back down on the bed.

Peter starts the Telegraph crossword.

By the next cup of coffee Eduardo is peering over his shoulder to contribute suggestions for clues.

By the fourth they are seated side-by-side working out the cryptic crossword in the Independent.

When that is finished Peter asks if he is ready to head back to town, or if he would rather go for a walk in the country.

"Seriously?" Eduardo asks, with a half-smile.

"It was just a thought," Peter answers.

He already knew Eduardo would say no, of course. He isn't exactly fond of nature, though he does pretend, like in the Highlands, for example. He likes the accoutrements of the outdoors, of sport, more than the actual practices.

He has suggested on more than one occasion that Peter procure some cricket whites.

They go back to London, on the train, and spend the early afternoon in the British Museum. Eduardo spends the late afternoon in the British Museum bookstore; Peter waits for him in a pub down the road.

When Eduardo shows up, an hour later, laden with yet more bags full of books and a green scarf wound round his neck, Peter feels so fond of him that he grabs his hand and plants a kiss on the inside of his wrist before going to get himself another lager and a vodka tonic with lemon for Eduardo.

That night they see David Tennant and Catherine Tate in Much Ado and have a late-night curry, and go out later still, first to a bar and then to a club. Eduardo has taken off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt more than decorum truly demands.

Eduardo will deny it, but he is finely skilled in the art of seduction.

Eduardo will protest, but the truth is that he likes the chase.

Peter will only let the game go so far.

Drinks: yes. Dancing: yes. Kissing: yes.

Nothing else beyond that.

A boy as beautiful as Eduardo, Peter does not delude himself about his competition.

Any man within a mile radius, gay or straight, would be an easy conquest for Eduardo. He doesn't even need to ask.

Rentboys would pay _him _ for the privilege.

Eduardo dances with a few men, Peter's age or thereabouts.

This he can do, this public display of his undeniable desirability, caught between the hands and mouths of strangers on a dance floor.

But only for so long.

And none of them will come back to the hotel with them.

If and when someone does, it will be a boy like Eduardo, not a man like him.

And no one but Peter will get to fuck Eduardo.

That is what will happen, if and when something happens.

It is complicated, of course, an almost-overwhelming mixture of pride, and arousal, wrapped around a deep core of jealousy.

Peter drinks his scotch and watches Eduardo grind against a man wearing a truly atrocious flowered shirt -- _Paul Smith?_  


He pulls Eduardo towards him, by the hips, and says something in his ear, and Eduardo twists around to look up at him.

His eyes meet Peter's on the way there, and he shakes his head  _no._

Eduardo extricates himself, one fast and one slow song later.

He drinks another vodka and then goes outside to smoke.

His jacket reeks when he comes back in.

After an hour of this, an hour where Peter watches from the bar while Eduardo gets to know just how much everyone wants him, and it is, of course, absolutely not even remotely a surprise that everyone wants him, after this he crosses over to where Eduardo is sandwiched between two strangers, black and twinky and not even all that cute, and Peter waves them off, before pulling on Eduardo's lapels and bringing him close.

It is too loud to talk, a mix of appalling European house music and occasionally better Britpop, and the lights fluctuate between dim and dizzying, but the perfection of Eduardo's neck remains a constant.

Eduardo shudders when he traces a line from his forehead to his clavicle, and then further, slipping his palm underneath his open shirt to finger his nipple as he gnaws on his neck.

He does not let Eduardo move away, his hands on his arse, his hips twitching and rocking much more than dancing.

It is Eduardo, however, who grabs his hand and tugs him in the direction of the toilets. It is Eduardo who shoves him into a stall and kisses him, furiously, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and biting none too gently.

The music is muffled in the toilet stall, an undercurrent of bass that swells into phonic fullness every time the door swings open and shut.

"You're pushy tonight," Peter gasps, as Eduardo works his own belt open, and then Peter's, and then pushes him back against the metal divider wall, wrapping his long fingers around both of their cocks and stroking, mixing their sweat and precome and soon, spunk, together.

Eduardo bites Peter's mouth when he comes.

Peter repays the favour.

Eduardo likes it when it hurts. 

Sometimes Eduardo needs it rougher, harder.

There are nights when Eduardo seeks out danger.

Tonight is not one of them, after all, in the end.

Eduardo's mouth goes slack as he comes, and he slumps down, drunk and spent, suddenly boneless and exhausted.

He can change, so quickly.

From a moody squall to a clear sky and back again, with no warning and no prevarication.

Eduardo is like lightning.

(Peter watches Eduardo like Eduardo watches the weather.)

He slumps and lets Peter kiss him, run a finger over his face, tracing the thick lines of his eyebrows.

After Eduardo comes he is hungry, no matter what the hour, so when they have adjusted and composed themselves, they go outside and he hails them a taxi.

He puts his hand on Eduardo's lower back, helping him in to the car.

On the drive to a twenty-four hour cafe Eduardo is quiet.

He lets Peter hold his hand.

Eduardo can be wild, but then he gets tired, and sadder, somehow.

Peter tries not to think about it too much.

Eduardo spends a lot of time trying to make himself happy.

Peter looks out the window, at late-night London.

Maybe it is an American thing, this obsession with happiness, because Peter does not really understand it, because pleasure is more reliable, really, than happiness, which reeks of the falsity of chewing-gum adverts, all glinting teeth and plastered-on smiles.

Americans are always smiling, and this painfully false cheery optimism has pervaded the global retail economy -- every fucking waitress and shop clerk has to pretend that they give two sods about which cell phone plan you'll choose or if you enjoyed the chef's amuse bouche.

The falsity of it; the appalling shallowness.

All of it forced and disgusting, and unbelievably shallow.

It has spread even to England, this propensity for smiling when there is nothing going on worth smiling about.

A smile is a gift, rare, earned, beautiful -- alighting like a butterfly and then departing, whirling away, all the more lovely for being sincere.

 _Minute fractions_ , Coleridge called them.

It shouldn't be used as a mask, a meaningless rictus belying discontent, the perpetuation of shallowness.

Eduardo is not, himself, shallow, even though there are many times when he would like to be.

Peter has caught himself wondering what it is like to be that beautiful, and yet so sad.

He does not get sad like Eduardo gets sad.

Sadness is a waste of time, as is self-pity.

They pull up to an all-night American style cafe, and Eduardo blinks when the car comes to a stop.

"Thought you might be hungry," Peter says, as he pays and tips the driver.

He helps Eduardo out and opens the door for him.

It is late, too late for talking, too late for anything but a proper, artery-clogging fry-up and tea with two sugars for him, and an omelet for Eduardo. Whole wheat toast and a coffee, drunk black.

Eduardo stares at the television, his eyes glazed over, predictably.

The shipping forecast comes on, and he listens, intently.

"I could fall asleep to that," he says, stretching his arm along the back of the booth.

"It's quite soothing, isn't it?" Peter says, cutting up his fried tomato.

Eduardo watches the motion of the knife and fork, one eyebrow higher than the other.

"Something the matter?" he says, reaching for his tea.

"That looks like a blood clot," Eduardo says, wrinkling his nose.

It makes Peter snort, choking on his drink.

They go back to the room and shower, sleepily, and fall into bed with their hair still wet.

Eduardo only gets up once in the night to use the toilet, and when he comes back he lifts Peter's arm to crawl back into the space he has just vacated, still warm from the press of his side.

He falls asleep with Eduardo's damp hair tickling his nose. 

Friday morning finds him hangover-free, a blissful benefit of a late-night breakfast. He stretches in the bed and then rings the desk for tea and toast.

Eduardo sprawls next to him, covers pulled over his head. He kicks his legs and then yawns, rubbing the sleep from his eyes -- though he's also a bit hungover, though the way he carries on about it, you would think he'd just had a limb amputated.

"Ow," he says, quietly, and then repeats a second time for effect.

"Morning," Peter says, and puts his hand on Eduardo's head. "How you feeling?"

"Everything _hurts_ ," Eduardo says, shutting his eyes and wincing.

Peter fetches him a glass of water and painkiller from the bathroom.

"Drink the whole glass," he says, when Eduardo pauses after only a few sips.

He drinks the rest in three long gulps, and then flings out his hand like a consumptive.

Peter takes the glass away and sets it on the side table. His hand hovers over the telephone.

"Do you want food?" he asks.

Eduardo groans into his pillow and mumbles something about _dying._

Peter rings for coffee and dry toast.

When it arrives Eduardo perks up a little bit, and sips his coffee with his eyes closed.

Despite the melodrama, Eduardo is young, and he recuperates quickly enough.

They lounge around in bed. Peter does the crossword and Eduardo rests his head on his shoulder with his eyes closed and offers possible answers when Peter gives him clues.

At quarter past one they go out, headed for the Haymarket.

Eduardo suffers through a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant and the National Portrait Gallery.

He perks up much more when they go to Bond Street and duck in and out of shops between the art galleries. They spend a solid hour at the flagship Vivienne Westwood in Conduit Street, Eduardo happily flipping through ther racks while Peter scrolls through restaurant reviews on his phone.

"I could go for French -- Le Gavroche still has the moules frites on the menu--" he trails off, thinking of the skin of their pressed poussin, the fat all but rendered away...

"If we do that then I'll have garlic breath," Eduardo says, examining a black shirt.

"I don't give a toss," he says.

When he looks up from the screen Eduardo is giving him a knowing look, but a playful one.

"Ah," he says, as the penny drops.

"Can we go for sushi instead?" he asks. Eduardo adores sushi, would eat it five days a week, if he could.

"We live in Hong Kong and you want to go for sushi _here_?"

"Please?"

"So demanding," he sighs, opening a new browser window.

Eduardo spins on his heel, but as he heads in the direction of the fitting room he presses a light kiss to the corner of Peter's mouth, and then he is gone.

Peter cocks his head to the side to get a better view, as he leaves.

(So does the shopgirl.)

Eduardo makes his purchases and they ride back to the hotel in a taxi, stopping off at an off-license to buy a bottle of whiskey, for later.

Eduardo waits in the car as Peter ducks inside.

Once they are in the room he pours them each two fingers' worth as Eduardo goes to run a bath.

He undresses carelessly and quickly before sliding into the tub with a heavy exhale.

Peter watches him, bubbles framing his face.

He sits on the toilet until the water has cooled off slightly and he can climb into the tub with him.

"Wuss," Eduardo laughs, when Peter pulls a face, drawing his foot back.

"Evil bastard," he huffs back, and then slowly puts his feet back in the opposite end of the tub from Eduardo.

It takes him a full six minutes to submerge himself in the water.

Eduardo watches him the entire time, sipping his drink, with flashing eyes.

When he is in the tub, Eduardo leans back and extends his leg, placing his wet foot in the centre of Peter's chest.

He runs his fingers over the bony tendons and Eduardo sighs.

Peter rubs the arch of his foot with his thumbs.

Eduardo leans back, his arms along either side of the bathtub, as Peter continues to rub his feet -- first the right and then the left.

"Turn on the tap," he says, with his eyes closed. "It's getting cold in here."

"You're daft," Peter answers, but he turns the hot water on all the same.

Eduardo trails his fingers back and forth to mix the water, and then he sits up and turns, seating himself between Peter's legs. His knees poke out from the surface. All of the bubbles have gone flat.

Eduardo melts against him as he touches his shoulders and breathes in the scent of his hair.

They stay this way for a long time. Eduardo makes him turn the hot water again twice more while they finish their drinks.

Eduardo gets out first and starts preening.

Peter lets the bathwater settle on a reasonable temperature, and then he soaps and rinses and gets out of the tub, wrapping himself in the white terry bathrobe.

Eduardo is standing in front of the mirror, wearing pegged black trousers and a dark grey shirt, the one purchased today.

"You look fantastic," he says, appreciatively, watching his mouth curve into a grin, in the mirror, though he does not acknowledge the compliment in any other way.

"Where's dinner?" he asks, sliding on a jacket.

"Nobu," Peter says, pulling a bottle of Pellegrino from the minibar. "Eight-thirty."

He gulps down the water, replenishing lost sweat, and goes to dress for dinner.

The doorman hails them a cab.

The air is crisp; the sky an inky blue.

The smell of Eduardo's cologne fills the back seat.

They arrive a little early and wait in the bar.

It's a rambunctious crowd, the kind of scene where one would expect to see a Sugababe or a supporting cast member of an ITV drama.

The drinks are excellent -- martinis made with grapefruit juice and shisho leaves -- and the table they have is more intimate than the crowded bar, although unfortunately it is too damn close to the kitchen, the door swinging back and forth each time a server makes a pass through the dining room.

They drink sake which, the menu tells them, has been aged for a decade in a dimly lit room serenaded by music.

"I wonder if we can buy a copy of that playlist," Eduardo says.

"Possibly," Peter says, pressing Eduardo's hands between his own.

Their knees touch under the table.

They order: toro, sweet shrimp, eel, spider crab, scallop, salmon skin, and a truly obscene amount of yellowtail.

Eduardo still has not mastered rice or noodles with chopsticks, but he manages to pick up each nigiri delicately enough not to crush it.

Everything is lovely.

They talk about Kyoto, a possible visit come spring. The caste system of feudal Japan. Courtly love. A book Eduardo once read about geishas. The films of Kurosawa. Cherry blossom season.

He tells Eduardo about the restaurants in Japan where the meal changes every three weeks to reflect the tiniest changes in the seasons, and where the whole progression lulls you into a state of such euphoric complacency that you are not even given the bill at the end of it, because it would jar the diners from their reverential state of bliss straight into sticker shock.

They send it round the next day, by courier.

It's very civilized.

This is as close as they come to discussing finances. Peter thinks it's unseemly to discuss money -- pitifully bourgeois, and totally needless.

He is well off, as is Eduardo.

They neither merge their bank accounts nor their assets.

Eduardo is independent, as so is he.

He is not in it for the money, neither of them are.

He is in it for the mischievous look Eduardo gets when he works his knee between his legs under the table.

Amongst other reasons.

Eduardo does not finish his entire bowl of green tea ice cream.

He, frankly, spends more time carefully licking the spoon than he does actually eating it.

He drums his fingers on the table, not impatiently, watching the ice cream melt from solid to liquid, watching the tip of Eduardo's tongue press to the point of the spoon, and then lick his lips.

"You fucking _tease_ ," Peter says, feeling like his trousers are quite suddenly two sizes too small.

Eduardo pulls the spoon out of his mouth, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

"Do you want some?" he asks, holding up a dripping spoonful.

"Piss off," he answers.

Eduardo shrugs and goes back to licking, closing his eyes as his throat works.

Peter is nothing if not appreciative.

They are in no hurry to get the bill, but they do, eventually.

A taxi takes them past Mayfair to Soho.

The bar is clean, almost sterile.

There is not a lot of activity. Eduardo is restless. He wants to go somewhere else, with better music. Peter wants to go somewhere with boys he does not view as a threat, not well-heeled City fellows who circle Eduardo like vultures clad in Saville Row.

Eduardo likes all forms of attention, and though they are doing this together, it is Eduardo who draws them in, with his wide-open shirts, his too-snug trousers, his flirtatious demeanor.

Peter stands bent over with his elbows on the bar, hands cradling his glass, while Eduardo scans the room.

Strangers come up to Eduardo, even though they are together, and touch his elbow or offer to buy him drinks.

He rebuffs them without a second thought.

They stay for one drink and then leave on foot, walking deeper into Soho, chasing an adventure, an experience.

Eduardo stops for cigarettes on the way. 

The second place, in Compton Street, has multiple floors and an Essex crowd.

They have one drink, together, at the bar, and then Eduardo does a lap.

Peter spends the time looking into his whiskey glass.

The cutest boy in there is the bartender, who is wearing a v-neck t-shirt and who flirts aggressively rather than smiling at the punters.

He has a very full tip jar.

No one catches his eye, in particular. Too many fringed blondes wearing track pants. Eduardo seems to be of the same mind, seeing as how he he comes back, barely ten minutes later, shaking his head in dismay.

He glides over and says, "Nothing here."

"My thoughts exactly," Peter says, draining his glass and leaving a bill on the bar.

They move on.

Eduardo smokes a cigarette once they are outside.

Peter is tipsy enough to filch a few drags.

He coughs into his fist and hands it back, wheezing a little from the smoke and the cold air.

Eduardo leans against the wall, his face half-hidden by shadows.

"Where should we go next?" he asks, without a hint of fatigue.

Even in the dark Peter can see that his eyes glint with excitement.

He is not bored yet.

Whereas he, is sort of _tired,_ to be perfectly honest. He doesn't know where Eduardo finds the energy -- well, he does, he just hates to admit it to himself, that he's getting older -- forty-one come November, _can that even be right?_

But he knows that it is, the inevitable truths that his knees take longer to recover after a squash game than they ever used to before, or that his hair is growing thinner, even if he is not balding, precisely, or that some nights he does not always want to go dancing or drinking or clubbing past ten.

It is growing close to midnight.

"One more?" he says, as Eduardo tosses his cigarette down. Peter grinds it out with the toe of his shoe.

"You tired?" Eduardo asks, voice quiet and considerate.

A cab honks at a gaggle of drunk lads crossing against the light.

"A bit," he concedes, rubbing the side of his face.

Eduardo takes his hand, lacing their fingers together.

They walk and scope a few more places, backlit by the pink and green neon of sex shops. The air smells like chips.

Eduardo settles on somewhere more intimate, slightly grottier.

He does the ordering, at the bar, and they stand close together, his fingers absently stroking the lapel of Peter's jacket.

He stays close by, coming to stand between Peter's spread legs and face him, a challenge in his face.

"Dance with me," he says, tugging on his jacket.

His back hurts, a bit.

Eduardo flutters his eyelashes.

"Yeah, all right," he says, and tosses back his whiskey.

Eduardo does the same with his vodka, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before leading Peter out onto the dance floor.

It's not a big space, sunken and hemmed in on three sides by spectators.

They face one another without touching for one song.

The second song is slower, and he slides his hands along Eduardo's sides, under his jacket, and pulls him closer, hooking his thumbs into his armpits.

Eduardo's knees give for a moment when he puts his knee between Eduardo's own and rubs his thigh against his groin.

He then grins, sharp, and relaxes, slightly, putting his arms around Peter's neck.

As the song ends he brushes the backs of his fingers up Eduardo's cheeks and then tangles one in his hair, leaning in and opening his mouth against Eduardo's own, feeling him yield.

Even over the music he can hear Eduardo's breathless little whimpers, and he whimpers more loudly when he slips his hands down over the tight swell of his arse.

He is breathing hot into Eduardo's mouth, stroking his bottom in time with each soft lick, and when he pulls back to look at Eduardo, he looks blearily aroused, and he bites his lip -- so charming, so goddamned enticing -- and lets out a gasp when Peter leans in and says, "Everyone here wants you, Eduardo, would give anything to touch you like I'm touching you," he purrs.

The DJ puts on another song, something heavier, American.

Eduardo squeals in his throat and with a coy look turns around, pressing his bottom to Peter's crotch and circling his hips, slowly, in one direction and then the other.

His cock is already straining against his zip before Eduardo starts to rock up against him, taut muscle bringing delicious friction.

His fingers go to Eduardo's hips, instinctively, as he starts to thrust, the motion almost the same as when he has Eduardo on all fours, stretched out beneath him, sweat pooling in the bronze hollow of his lower back. 

He growls under his breath and places his hands flat on the fronts of Eduardo's thighs, feeling how the fabric is stretched tight there, as well.

He turns Eduardo's head and kisses him, really just pressing their tongues together owing to the awkward angle.

"Who do you want?" he murmurs, to the hollow under Eduardo's ear, and then sucking the lobe between his teeth.

"Tell me, pet," he rasps out, his voicing sounding oddly resonant against the music. "Because if we don't cop off soon, well, then I'm going to have to take you home and take you apart, isn't that right?"

Eduardo shudders, visibly, at that, and he tips his head back.

Peter runs his middle finger and thumb down either side of Eduardo's trachea, resting in the hollow dip of his clavicle, and then letting his hand come to rest, warningly, on Eduardo's chest.

"Look around, tell me what you want," he says, and when Eduardo does not answer right away -- because he is so sexual, so achingly sensual, and yet he has to be pushed, just a hair, to realize his full potential -- he curves his fingers around his throat, just underneath his Adam's apple.

Eduardo gulps.

Peter holds up his left hand in front of Eduardo's face, showing him his watch.

It is 12:24 in the morning.

"One o'clock sharp," Peter says, dropping his voice.

Eduardo practically  thrums with the vibration, and unconsciously grinds his hips back.

Peter can feel the hard trapped line of his cock rubbing the crack between Eduardo's arse cheeks, through many layers of fabric, fine as filigree.

"Shit," Eduardo croaks out, as Peter cups his cock with his hand.

His hips stutter forward, seeking pressure as Peter pulls his hand away.

At this rate they're going to end up in the toilets, Eduardo bracing himself against the stall walls, him sitting on the toilet, his mouth stretched tight around Eduardo.

Eduardo wriggles against him for another song.

It takes most of his willpower not to fuck him on the dance floor.

He pushes Eduardo a pace away from him and jerks his head in the direction of the bar. 

This time he does the ordering, leaning heavily against the bar, winded and shouting. He orders a bottle of sparkling water in addition to the alcohol.

Eduardo swills his vodka tonic fast.

He has already sweat out the drinks from before, practically.

The sides of his forehead are damp, his hair sweaty there.

Peter hands him a glass of water, indicates that he should drink it.

Eduardo rolls his eyes and sets it down on the bar.

"I'm going to the toilet," he shouts.

Peter watches him as he walks away.

(So does the bartender.)


	3. Chapter 3

He is interrupted from his reverie by the sound of a nasal Irish voice straining to be heard over the music.

"Can you spot me the two extra shots? I'm just a bit light, at the moment--"

It is like a jolt.

An accent that reminds him of Robert which reminds him of Trinity which reminds him of autumn afternoons in a punt on the river and late-spring furtive snogging behind trees --

"--look, mate, I'm good for it, swear to God. I'll come round tomorrow and tip you a fiver, give you my word--"

The bartender is saying something, reaching over to take the drink away.

Peter stops him with his hand before he even knows he's doing it.

"I've got it," he says, to the barman, who sets the glass back down.

Peter turns.

 _ Christ. _

"Cheers," he says, giving his full attention to the quad-shot vodka Red Bull in his hand.

"Sure thing," Peter answers, staring perhaps a beat longer than he should.

"So," he coughs, "where are you from?"

"County Clare," he says.

"Erm. And what brings you here?"

"The party scene, of course. Well, that and the legalised access to abortions."

It takes Peter a moment to recognize this as a joke.

"Patrick," he says.

"Peter."

"Where's he's got off to, then?" he asks, meaning Eduardo.

"Toilets."

"Ah," he says, waggling his eyebrows, a little lewdly.

"Oh, here," Peter says, standing up as Eduardo approaches, his head cocked to the side.

Peter introduces them.

Eduardo drains the rest of his drink and begrudgingly drinks some of the water before pulling Peter back in the direction of the dance floor.

"Ta," says Patrick, as they leave.

This time they go to the far corner, where the lights are dimmer.

It is a slow song.

(Peter leads.)

He is shorter than Eduardo, but this means his mouth is level with the top of Eduardo's neck.

The sweat from before has dried, crystalline and salty.

He flicks out his tongue and licks it off, little dabs of his tongue where Eduardo is soft and sensitive.

That gets him so worked up, it's delicious.

Peter fists a hand in the back of his hair, tilting his head so that the long column of his throat is exposed.

He scrapes his teeth over it until Eduardo is trembling underneath him.

"It's nearly one," he says, lowly, against Eduardo's ear. "What shall we do?"

Eduardo tilts his head down to look at him, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark.

"Do you like him?" he asks.

Peter shrugs, noncommittally.

"I could do," he says, with a raised eyebrow.

One side of Eduardo's mouth turns up and he says, "You're up for it?"

"Meaning what?"

"Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"Don't start."

Eduardo grins, lets Peter cup his cheeks and pull him down for a kiss, before he untangles himself and leaves the dance floor.

Peter goes back to the bar to wait. 

He starts a tab, gets another fizzy water, trying to stave off the inevitable hangover of Saturday morning.

The music is decent, a mix of old and new.

He thinks about Cambridge, late nights at the Eagle.

Perhaps next trip they'll go down.

Eduardo would probably like it, or at least find it quaint, his deft urbanity aside.

They can go for a walk along the river.

Peter will show him all the spots that hold memories from those three years at university.

Eduardo comes back over, smelling of smoke.

The Irish lad, Patrick, is right behind him.

"Buy us a drink?" Eduardo asks, coyly.

Another round is put in for and some shouted small talk and then head-bopping ensues. Eduardo wants to dance again, but this time he asks Patrick, tugging on the sleeve of his denim jacket.

He watches them from the bar, and then when they move deeper into the crowd, he finds a seat at a table so he can see.

His view is partially obstructed, but he can see enough.

How Eduardo moves first close and then pulling back, teasing, and then presses the whole front of his body against Patrick when a slower song comes on.

Peter finishes his drink, feeling excited queasiness in stomach as Eduardo rubs his bottom against Patrick's crotch, and even from his perch halfway across the room, he can see his eyes widen with shock and pleasure as Eduardo grinds their bodies together, just at that one spot.

(He is not the only one looking.)

He swallows and then stands. His fingertips are tingling; all the blood in his body is in his temples and his stiffening cock.

Patrick is easy enough to manoeuvre to the other side of Eduardo so he can be the one pressed up against his backside.

He lifts Eduardo's arms and puts them around Patrick's neck.

Eduardo swivels his head to look down at Peter and then lets his lips part, enticing Peter in for a kiss.

He crushes their mouths together and sucks down Eduardo's moans. 

Eduardo's mouth opens as he kisses him, and he moves his hips to the front and the back, both seeking and giving pleasure.

Patrick looks turned-on and stunned, even more so when Peter guides his hand to the front of Eduardo's trousers, where he is straining and damp with sweat.

They are too tight to tent, but Peter knows that he is hard and leaking underneath, through his sheer black underwear.

he breaks away from Eduardo's mouth to murmur in his ear, one hand crossed against his chest, the other stroking down the damp front of his thigh.

"You're so gorgeous like this," he says, skimming his hand past Eduardo's balls and down the side of his hip.

"So beautiful, so good, so fucking hot for it, aren't you, Eduardo?"

Eduardo lets out a whimper that is hardly audible, but Peter can feel him relax a little bit as he exhales.

He tenses up when Peter finds his nipple, through his shirt and under his jacket.

Patrick is rubbing Eduardo's crotch with ever-quickening friction, but he has not kissed him yet, a situation which Peter desires to be remedied immediately.

"Kiss him, Eduardo," he says, gruff against his neck.

He can see Eduardo lick his lips, and then let a hand drop down from around Patrick's neck to his jacket, which he tugs on twice.

Patrick is a more straightforward kisser -- he leans in and opens his mouth right away, and after hardly any time at all, is probing Eduardo's mouth with his tongue.

Eduardo's body goes from tense to limp as they do this for the remainder of one song and the entirety of two more.

Peter knows he is getting wet through his tight black underpants, sheer as women's stockings.

He says something to this effect, into the thick mane of Eduardo's hair, and then he turns his head with his fingertips, catching his lips in his teeth.

Eduardo sighs; Eduardo shudders; Eduardo melts.

He goes boneless and limp and everyone in the whole club has to be turned on, to look at him.

"Gonna take you home and fuck you now, is that what you want, pet?" he whispers, for Eduardo only.

He nods, frantically.

Peter laughs.

"Good boy. Shall we take this one with us?"

He nods again, and Peter rewards him with a hard squeeze of his cock through his trousers.

When the music ends he says, "Shall we?" -- indicating the door with his head.

Eduardo is panting in the middle of the dance floor.

Peter grabs his hand.

Patrick says, "I'm game," and so they all leave, together, and get a taxi back to the hotel.

They take turns kissing Eduardo in the back seat on the drive over. 

In the taxi he keeps his hand buried in the hot crease of Eduardo's thigh, barely brushing against him with his fingertips. Patrick is lewder, groping Eduardo's crotch and kissing him loudly.

When they pull up at a red light, though, he blurts out, "Can we get chips?"

"Pardon?" Peter says, from the other side of Eduardo.

"I'm fucking starving," Patrick declares.

Peter raps on the glass and asks the driver to stop somewhere on the way for chips.

"Do you want anything?" he asks, as he gets out of the car.

"Here," Eduardo says, handing him a bill. "Can you get me a pack of Marlboros?"

"Done," he says, slamming the door with aplomb.

Eduardo shakes his head at the closed door.

The driver rolls the window back up.

He reaches over and touches Eduardo's top lip with his index finger, lets his touch linger in the corner of his mouth.

So beautiful.

He kisses him.

Eduardo does not always divulge his moods, but Peter can almost always figure them out this way.

The way Eduardo kisses him tells him how he wants to be treated. Tonight's kisses are wet but shallow, wide-mouthed, gasping. He clutches at Peter's shoulders.

He is rubbing his thumb across Eduardo's full bottom lip when the car door opens and the smell of hot fat fills the backseat.

Patrick crawls in, dropping the cigarettes on Eduardo's lap.

He smacks his lips when he eats and sucks salt off his fingers.

Eduardo looks simultaneously enthralled and repulsed by this display.

"D'you want some?" he asks, holding out the bag.

"I'm good, thanks," says Eduardo.

Peter just shakes his head.

Patrick whistles under his breath when they turn into Abelmarle Street.

He leaves the empty chop bag crumpled up on the back seat, and he does not give Eduardo his change.

The two boys want to smoke.

Patrick lights Eduardo's cigarette for him and then lights one of his own.

His lungs hurt from before, so he does not want to smoke again. It was a bad idea the first time, but then it almost always is, these days.

He smoked in college, of course, as they all did. And from his early days in the city, and then in Geneva, and then back to London, and then to Edinburgh and a brief stint in Tokyo, all that time he smoked, too.

It was Hong Kong, funnily enough, that made him want to quit, the malodorous stench of cheap Chinese tobacco fogging up every park and teahouse and cafe and club.

When he is on holiday, however, he will make an exception.

Eduardo's cheeks hollow when he takes a drag, and he exhales loudly in the direction of Patrick's face.

Trust Eduardo to make a fag break into an opportunity for effortless flirtation.

"I'll meet you in the room?" he asks Eduardo, who says, "Yeah, yeah," in an affected offhand before taking another long drag.

The doorman holds the door for him.

The lift seems to take ages.

The ride up takes even longer.

He pisses and washes his hands, in the room, and then sticks his wallet in the safe.

One can never be too careful.

He gulps another water and then as he is pouring three tumblers of whiskey, the door handle turns and Eduardo and Patrick come in, red-faced, hair mussed, with the wind on their cheeks, giggling like schoolboys. 

Eduardo comes over and takes two of the glasses in one hand. He pointedly ignores the mineral water, however. Patrick is looking around, hands shoved in his pockets, perhaps a little overawed by his surroundings.

"Nice digs," he says, accepting a glass from Eduardo, who shrugs as if to say  _what, this?_

Eduardo looks at home in luxury, as if he were born to it, the veneer of American entitlement all over him.

Patrick, of course, does not.

He is all brash bravado, chugging his drink and holding out his glass for more, and then flopping down on the bed, leaning back onto his elbows, his legs spread, pelvis on the edge of the bed.

"Are we shagging, then, or what?" he says, cocking his head to look at Eduardo -- always Eduardo, as they always do, and rightfully so.

Eduardo giggles at the audacity of it all, flushing pink and pleased.

Peter slips off Eduardo's jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair, smoothing away the wrinkles, and then he removes his own.

He rolls up his sleeves, one at a time, until they are above his elbows. Peter dims the lights and turns on the satellite radio to something unobtrusive, and then settles himself in the armchair a ways across from the bed.

Eduardo finishes his drink and sets down the glass on the sideboard.

He leans over Peter and purses his lips, waiting for a kiss, a signal, an okay. His hands are on either side of the chair, and Peter covers one of them with his own, rubbing his thumb across his skin.

Peter breathes out and then flicks his tongue into his mouth.

Eduardo tastes like ashes and alcohol, masking the sweet flavour of his breath underneath.

They kiss for a moment, lightly, without words but with infinite understanding, and then Eduardo sucks Peter's lip between his teeth and nips, naughty like a kitten, and his eyes jolt open.

He nods, slightly, and Eduardo pushes himself up and crosses over to the bed, where Patrick is lounging, absently touching his own crotch, but without real purpose.

Peter sips his drink as Eduardo angles their faces so that he has the best possible view.

Eduardo is, at least for the moment, on top.

Patrick's hands go to Eduardo's arse, again, instinctive.

Peter feels a surge of wrathful jealously, but then arousal, once more, as Eduardo starts to grind his hips down and his trousers draw tight, every curve and bump in sharp relief.

Peter wants to touch him, to put his mouth on him.

He coughs, into his fist, and Eduardo looks up, eyes almost black with arousal.

Patrick whines as he pulls away.

Peter puts down his glass and stands up, coming to hover over Eduardo.

He strokes his shoulders as he dips his head to kiss Patrick again, who is a moaner.

Peter reaches around to unbutton Eduardo's shirt, but he does not remove it, just lets it fall open, gracefully, before sliding his palms down the firm lines of Eduardo's abdomen, down almost to his knees and back up again, to his armpits.

He licks the salt from Eduardo's neck until his skin shines.

Eduardo takes off Patrick's jacket and kisses his neck as Peter pulls his shirt down but not off, so that it hangs around his elbows, trapping him like binding.

He sketches hot lines across the dip of Eduardo's back with his fingers, he traces the ridges of his spine with his tongue, as Eduardo and Patrick snog underneath him like horny schoolboys.

When Peter cups his arse Eduardo moans against Patrick's neck.

Patrick is mumbling nonsense, words that Peter can't make out, but he doesn't care what he has to say, really.

"Fuck," Eduardo gasps, as Peter slips his fingers under his waistband and finds his hipbones. 

His stomach muscles tense up as he moves to his belt, undoing it with just one hand. He lets the buckle dangle as he helps Eduardo out of his shirt.

Patrick sits up partway and yanks his own shirt over his head.

He is skinny, not as well defined as Eduardo.

(Younger, too, from the looks of it.)

He places his hand on the back of Eduardo's head and guides him down so that he can kiss Patrick again, which he does, messily.

While they do that he spends some more time exploring Eduardo's armpits, then scraping his teeth along the jut of his ribcage.

Patrick has gone from mumbling nonsense to babbling wildly, because Eduardo has started to rub against him.

There is a gorgeous expanse of skin beneath him, each muscle quivering as he brushes it with his lips.

He finds his way behind Eduardo and peels his trousers off, and then yanks him back by the hips with both hands so that his arse is in the air.

His underwear are sheer as candy floss.

He can hear Patrick say, admiringly, "nice."

For a moment he just has to touch. To place merely the tips of his fingers lightly on Eduardo and then rub his thumb over the flat dip at the base of his spine.

He uses his fingers to prod the bunched up muscles on either side of his spine, and then starts to massage further down, until he can feel Eduardo relax.

Eduardo is so tight, unbelievably so.

Peter fucking loves that about him.

(So, too, does Eduardo.)

He rubs each hand in a circle, each in opposite directions, first inward and then outward, before he even puts his mouth on him.

Underneath his briefs he is opening up, fluttering hot, not a finger on him or a tongue in him.

Patrick has discovered that Eduardo has sensitive spots all over his chest, and they are both groaning underneath him, legs intertwined.

Eduardo is moving his hand, jerking Patrick off, and clenching his toes every time Peter comes near his hole.

He prises his arse cheeks apart with his thumbs and licks him, thoroughly, wickedly, down the cleft of his arse. Down to his balls and then breaking away to start again at the top, only in that one direction.

(Even soaked with sweat Eduardo tastes sweet.)

Patrick rubs Eduardo's erection through his briefs, murmuring appreciatively -- not that Eduardo is going to be fucking him, of course.

(Eduardo doesn't do that, not ever.)

He uses his tongue on Eduardo, through the underwear, until they are soaked through front and back both, and then he uses his fingers, on top there as well. He cannot push them in past the first knuckle, since they catch on the fabric and spring back, but he knows Eduardo loves the scrape, loves the burn of it.

He chews on either arse cheek, and smacks each one a few times for good measure. Eduardo bites down on a hollow cry when he does that, and so he draws the underwear down and does it again, leaving pink splotches behind.

He drives his tongue into a point and curls it until Eduardo is gasping, fucking himself on hands and knees on Peter's tongue and moaning more loudly on each thrust back.

"Fuck, that's hot," Patrick says, "he fucking loves that."

Peter chuckles to himself and breaks away from Eduardo with a slurping kiss. He moans at the sudden loss of fullness, and Peter wants to be inside of him, to replace his tongue with himself, to make Eduardo full and feel him around him, hot and tight and perfect.

"You like that, Eduardo?" he asks, rubbing his knuckle underneath his balls which are heavy, full and drooping. Eduardo's only response is to mumble incoherently.

He is wet in back and wet in the front, he can feel it when he pinches the swollen head of his cock, making Eduardo spasm.

"What do you want, pet?" he asks, rhythmically pressing his fingers against Eduardo's arsehole, feeling him swell and pulsate.

Eduardo twists his head around and grits out, "Want to  fuck."

“Course you do,” he smiles. Peter licks his lips and starts to swirl his finger inside Eduardo, who practically screams, even though he is loose and wet.

"God, you're tight," Peter says.

Patrick laughs.

"You," Peter says, sitting up on his knees.

Patrick looks at him, defiantly.

"Get on the floor," he says, reaching over to the nightstand and pulling out of Eduardo at the same time.

His eyebrows knit together in confusion, but then Eduardo is kissing him again, desperately.

He is the only one of the three who is fully naked.

It is, as always, glorious and gorgeous to look at.

He can hear Eduardo whisper to Patrick "...suck me off?" and Patrick sighs in mock exasperation and says, "yeah, all right then."

Eduardo rolls off of him.

He kneels on the edge of the bed and pulls Patrick's jeans off, helping him step out of them. Peter can see where he is partly tucked out of his briefs, Eduardo rubbing his thumb along his length. His own trousers come off, his pants as well, and then he coats himself with the barest film of lubrication.

Peter sits down next to Eduardo and runs his hand down the swell of his arse before scratching with his fingernail against his puckered sensitive skin. He moans, open-mouthed, against Patrick's hip.

He touches Eduardo's shoulder gently and says, "Come and sit, pet."

Eduardo scoots over and lifts his hips up so that Peter can angle himself against his entrance -- still so tight around him. He sits down slow. It has to burn, has to hurt, since even though he has been lavished with attention there is hardly any lube on his cock. He whimpers slightly, with the pain of it, and Peter knows he likes it, how he likes feeling debauched and dirty and a little used, so he pinches another slippery bead of precome off Eduardo's dick and rubs it against his hole, feeling him shudder, then clench, and then whine, and then -- finally, his thighs quaking with exertion, rubbing himself back and forth until the head of his cock slips slowly inside, and then   
fractional inch by torturous fractional inch, settling himself down.

"Gorgeous," he says, when he is seated fully inside.

Eduardo quivers when he breathes this against his ear.

Peter holds Eduardo steady with one hand, the base of his own cock upright with the other. Patrick is not much help, doing naught more than gaping open-mouthed at the breathtaking sight of Eduardo splayed naked in front of him, Peter's cock fully in his arse, rocking his hips minutely, his mouth falling open with pleasure.

"So tight, pet," he says, to the hollow under Eduardo's ear. "You feel amazing."

It is true. Eduardo fits like a tailor-made suit. Like couture.

"Oh," Eduardo gasps, as Peter pulls him back and forth by the creases of his inner thighs.

"Does that feel good?" he asks, teasing.

Eduardo nods, his head drooping forward.

Peter _tsks_ and pulls his chin up with his fingers.

"You need to watch, love," he says, indicating that Patrick should be on his fucking knees by now.

He does so, trailing his fingers along Eduardo's thin legs.

Peter does not let Eduardo move away from him, lets no space come between their bodies, but simply rocks into Eduardo, keeping him full, pressure already relentless against his prostate.

He holds Eduardo's head upright with a hand under his chin, and sucks wetly on his earlobe before saying, "Open your eyes, pet, Patrick's going to put his mouth on you now."

Patrick licks his full lips greedily and then ducks his head to kiss the leaking tip of Eduardo's cock.

Eduardo jerks away as if he has been stung.

Patrick looks up at him from under heavy-lidded eyes and says, "Best hold still, yeah?"

Peter reaches over to put his thumb on Patrick's chin, then swiping it over his lip: a directive and a warning.

"You taste so good, Eduardo," he says, thrusting shallowly now, feeling the obscene stickiness starting to build between their bodies,   
"We should let Patrick have a taste, don't you think? Shall we feed him your cock?"

Eduardo's body jerks with shame and pleasure when Peter says this, reminding everyone who is in charge.

"Open up," he says down to Patrick, who lets his lips part slightly. Peter uses his other hand to guide Eduardo's cock to his open mouth, and says, "Watch, Eduardo, watch."

Eduardo shrieks when Patrick's lips close around him and he sucks gently on the head.

Peter plays with Eduardo's hair, and then tweaks at his nipples, and then traces the place where his cock meets Patrick's lips, pursed prettily around the swollen tip. He starts to thurst harder, fucking Eduardo forward, and Patrick responds by moaning open-mouthed around Eduardo's cock, pleasure feeding pleasure.

"Fuck, that's nice," Peter says, admiringly, watching Patrick drink him down, lips stretched tight around the base.

He runs his fingers over Eduardo's balls and feels them tighten, feels him spasm, too close to coming.

"Don't let him come yet," he tells Patrick, who is working Eduardo furiously with his mouth.

He nods around Eduardo's cock and pulls off almost all the way, letting saliva coat his lips and dribble out the corners of his mouth before sucking him again, the head popping out hard into his cheek.

Peter takes Eduardo's hand in his own and makes him touch that place, rub slight circles across the taut skin, stretched tight and bulging.

"We found ourselves a pretty little cocksucker, didn't we?" he says, repeating this as they touch him. "Didn't we?"  


Patrick does not flinch from the task at hand, but Eduardo cries out, his eyes watering with the burn and the debauchery of it all.

"Fuck, oh, oh," Eduardo gasps, as Patrick pulls his cock out and teases the slit with his tongue.

"That nice?" Peter says, giving Patrick an approving nod, fitting one firm hand under Eduardo's left knee and changing the angle, pulling him off and onto his body, one leg higher than the other. The other hand he uses to cup Eduardo's balls, smooth and tight.

Eduardo's only response is a wordless grunt as Peter bounces him on his cock, driving him into Patrick's throat with each thrust.   
"Do you want to come for us, love?" he says, losing his own breath now, tensing his stomach muscles to hold himself back. It is hard not to come when Eduardo starts to, the rhythmic flutter of his sphincter milking him right to the brink.

He closes his eyes and thinks about the England cricket team in '87, oil-flecked beef noodle soup with sliced chilis floating on the surface, the sad-eyed beagle he had as a boy -- and he works Eduardo up and down, ringing the base of his cock with his fingers so he does not come yet, directing Patrick to pull off so Eduardo can come on his face.

"Open your eyes, that's a good boy," he says, tightening his grip under Eduardo's knee and letting the tight ring of his fingers release as his cock slips wetly from Patrick's full pink mouth.

"So fucking hot," Patrick mutters, his hand moving so quick as to be a blur.

He tips his head up to receive him as Peter finds the spot that makes him sob, shriek, scream.

When he comes it is more in waves than in spurts, a pretty mess all over Patrick's face, dripping down his cheeks and onto his skinny neck.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh, fuck, oh," Eduardo chants as Peter gentles him through it.

"I've got you, love, I've got you," he says, holding Eduardo upright so he can watch.

Eduardo sobs as Peter milks him dry into his palm.

Patrick licks it clean, when he holds it in front of his mouth.

He is a real find, that one. Peter idly wonders if they should get his number for the next time they come to town.

He stands up and trots off to the toilet to clean up, and Eduardo twists in Peter's lap to fling his arms around his neck like a child. He buries his face in the crook of Peter's neck and trembles.

He strokes Eduardo's back until he is no longer shivering, and he kisses his sweat-soaked hair.

Eduardo raises his head, his eyes liquid, his face unlined and open and he kisses Peter, sweetly, grinning when Peter cannot help but thrust up once, twice, mindlessly inside of him.

"Sorry," he says, instinctively.

"Don't be," Eduardo answers, rubbing his prickly cheek against Peter's own. "You haven't even come yet."

"True," he admits, holding Eduardo down onto his lap.

Eduardo's mouth finds his ear to whisper, secretly, "Do you want him?"

Peter pulls back to look at him.

His eyes flick to the floor and he bites his lip.

"Do you mind?" he asks.

Patrick emerges from the bathroom, stretching, his semi all-too-evident through his thin white cotton briefs.

Eduardo wriggles himself off Peter's cock and crosses over to the minibar.

This time he does drink a mineral water, two glassfuls, one right after the other.

Patrick flops down heavily on the bed next to Peter, who is watching the bob of Eduardo's throat, and then the wet smack of his lips as he finishes his drink.

Up close Eduardo is stunning, of course, but from further away sometimes he is so beautiful that Peter thinks he could cry -- if any urges to weep had not been walloped out of him as a boy at Stonyhurst.

Patrick rubs his foot against Peter's hip, trying to entice him.

Eduardo finds his underwear and slips them back on before coming to plant a kiss on Peter -- his eyes dark, his mood a little more dangerous -- and push him down. He puts one hand on Patrick's shoulder and they kiss as Eduardo moves their hands to touch him.

He is so hard that it hurts, a pulse like a flutter underneath Eduardo's nimble fingers, Patrick's calloused ones.

Patrick grunts happily when Eduardo starts to jerk him off.

Eduardo breaks away and crawls over to the nightstand.

(Of course they both watch him.)

When he turns around he has a condom in one hand and a wicked grin on his face.

"Lie down," he says, a little bit bossy.

Patrick is looking back and forth between them.

"Are we...?" he trails off.

"Take your underwear off and come up here," Eduardo says.

Patrick does so before he scuttles over and Eduardo kisses him, and then Peter does, deepening the kiss as Eduardo goes down to the foot of the bed.

"Fucking hell," he says, murmuring against Peter's lips.

Eduardo will not put his mouth on him, of course, but he has clever clever fingers, long and thin and dextrous.

Patrick groans into Peter's mouth, ruts himself against Peter's thigh.

Peter can tell when Eduardo hits his prostate because his mouth stretches wide open and he wheezes out a broken sound, halfway between a grunt of pleasure and a smoker's cough.

This goes on for a while, Eduardo fingering Patrick, who rubs himself off against Peter, who strokes Patrick's bony back.

Until Eduardo decides to stop it. Peter puts his hands behind his head and watches Eduardo kneel beside him; Eduardo tear open a condom packet with his teeth; Eduardo roll it onto him and stroke him until he is so hard, screamingly, itchingly hard, and all his temperance and   
patience and self-restraint can last not a second longer.

Eduardo is the one who guides them both into place.

Patrick makes a ridiculous face when Peter slides into him, and then his face relaxes, and then goes silly again.

It makes Peter want to laugh, a bit.

Eduardo takes turns kissing them.

Peter does not hesitate, nor does he try to hold his hips still.

"Jesus," he breathes out, as Patrick starts to fuck himself harder, faster, Eduardo making little clucks of encouragement.

"U-unnngh," Patrick says, when Eduardo grabs his cock with one slippery hand, letting him do all the work, thrashing, wildly.   
"Come for us, baby," Eduardo teases, winking down at Peter, whose face breaks into a grin.

Patrick is tight -- not as tight as Eduardo, but fuck, he knows how to move, and it is the relentless motion of his hips combined with the hot damp sound of his balls slapping Peter's lower abdomen, and the sight of Eduardo's lions' mane of hair, his perfect profile, the sheer lazy   
indolence of being ridden in a deluxe suite by a bloke half his age, who asks nothing and gets just that in return, it is the combination of all that, and the hot hot sheathing gripping his cock, and that does it.

Peter comes, his stomach going tight, dancing flecks of off-white when he screws his eyes shut.

When he looks up, Patrick's face is frozen in a grotesque rictus of pleasure as he shoots his load all over the place.

Some of it lands on Peter's chest, some of it on his stomach.

"Shit," he says, not really caring.

Eduardo looks quite pleased with himself.

Patrick's hair is wild, frizzed-out.

He is panting.

He goes to the bathroom, flushes the condom, pisses.

In the mirror, he looks stubbly, his eyes glazed over.

He wets a towel and cleans himself off and then finds clean underwear in his suitcase.

Eduardo brings over glasses and the quickly depleting bottle of scotch.

Patrick goes to smoke out on the balcony.

He is exhausted.

They all lie on the bed, mostly naked and tangled up, getting progressively drunker, until they drift off to sleep with the lights on.

Peter wakes up with a jolt -- five seconds or fifty minutes later -- and thinks for a moment that there are two of Eduardo in the bed with him.

Then he turns out the light, and finds his Eduardo to nuzzle up against.   
Eduardo makes a little cooing sound when Peter curls up next to him.

He has such hot skin.

Peter kisses his shoulder and Eduardo reaches up behind him and touches his hair, sleepily.

Patrick mumbles in his sleep.

He is also a kicker.

Peter and Eduardo end up in less than a third of the bed because Patrick sleeps splayed out like a starfish, all gangly legs and punching arms.

Short of kicking him to the curb -- _at four in the morning? definitely bad form_ \-- there's not much that he can do.

He matches his breathing to Eduardo's and it is like this, some time later, that he falls back asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning comes far too soon, considering.

The boys are asleep.

Patrick has stolen all of the sheets, which are wound around his legs.

Peter clambers over Eduardo, who grunts but does not open his eyes.

Until there is coffee waved under his nose, he is reluctant to get out of bed.

He rings room service for coffee and tea and fry-ups, plus fruit and a croissant for Eduardo, who finds the full English breakfast off-putting. Eduardo does not like to eat much, in the mornings.

Then he takes a shower and puts on his clothes; retrieving his billfold from the safe.

The attendant comes with the trolley and he fixes the coffee, first, and then his own tea.

The coffee he puts on the nightstand, where Eduardo fumbles for it, groggily.

He stirs his tea and reads the newspaper and eats his bacon and eggs and tomato and bread and black pudding.

Eduardo gets up, when his coffee is finished, and pads off to the shower.

When he comes back his neck and chest are flushed, blotchy underneath his bathrobe.

"Morning," he says, turning the page to the sport.

Eduardo pours himself more coffee and picks off the corner of his croissant.

He is quiet, as a rule, in the mornings.

He spends a lot of time in his head.

Peter does not pry.

He goes back to the paper and Eduardo forks up some of his fruit.

Patrick grunts, from the bed, where he is still laying face-down.

"Do you want breakfast?" Peter asks him. "Tea?"

"Tea," Patrick croaks, into his pillow.

"How do you take it?"

"Milk, three sugars."

Peter fixes it.

Eduardo wants to do the numerical puzzles and goes in search of pens.

Peter finishes his last bite of tomato and moves the plate aside so he can start on the cryptic crossword.

Twenty minutes later Patrick rolls out of bed and showers.

He and Eduardo are wearing matching bathrobes, whereas Peter is fully dressed.

It's kind of nice, though a fair bit on the awkward side.

He idly wonders if they should try for a second round before lunch, but like so many things in the cold -- for which read sober -- light of day. it doesn't seem worth pursuing.

Patrick is a loud chewer. Eduardo stares daggers at him.

"I'm going for a fag," he declares, mopping up the last bits of egg yolk with his bread. "Come with?" he asks Eduardo.

"I'm good," Eduardo answers, his voice icy. "Thanks, though."

"Suit yourself," he says, standing up from the table.

Eduardo also stands up and goes in the bathroom to get dressed.

Peter thinks, for a moment, and then follows Patrick outside, where he is leaning against the railing watching the traffic down below. He goes to stand next to him.

In the distance, a taxi honks, sharp and shrill.

Patrick exhales a plume of grey smoke and then spits, down onto the street below.

He rather wants to say _thank you_ , but that sounds presumptuous, like dismissing a servant, almost. It reeks, as the Guardian might say, of class-based elitism.

A trick is just that, no need for pleasantries, but when they sleep over -- there is hope, of course, and protocol.

Patrick throws his fag-end down into the street, and they both watch it bounce off the pavement.

"Let me give you cab fare home," Peter says.

"Yeah, all right," Patrick says, after a pause. "Twenty quid should cover it."

Peter fishes out his wallet and hands him a bill, along with two business cards and a pen.

"Put your number down, would you?" he asks.

Patrick writes it down, his email address too, practically illegible when he looks at it.

(His last name is Murphy.)

He puts it back in his billfold, the billfold in his pocket.

They go inside, where Eduardo sitting on the sofa, watching the weather forecast. He is dressed to go out, his scarf folded across his lap, his new grey peacoat lying over the arm of the adjacent armchair.

"Didn't you want to go to the Tate?" Eduardo says, not looking away from the television, when they step back inside.

"I did," Peter answers.

Eduardo looks over at him, and then over to Patrick.

"Do you want to come with us?" he asks, sweetly.

"Nah, I'm all right," Patrick says, shucking off his bathrobe and wandering around in his underwear looking for the rest of his clothes.

He finds everything, eventually, putting it on in the order he finds it.

Peter goes for the teapot, then backs away. Another cup would mean more stilted conversation between the three -- well, two -- of them, and Eduardo wants to leave.

He finally makes himself scarce.

Eduardo says a tight-lipped goodbye, but does not stand up.

Peter sees him to the door.

And then they are alone, again.

"Did you really want to go to the Tate?" he asks.

"Sure, let’s," Eduardo says, standing up by putting his hands on his thighs, winding his scarf around his neck all in one fluid, unbroken motion.

"I'll get my coat," he says.

Eduardo is already heading for the door.

He is quiet in the lift, as they make their way through the lobby and the foyer and out the front door, where a liveried doorman hails them a taxi.

"Looks like rain," he says, to Eduardo, who does not say anything in return.

If he does not want to talk about the weather, then he does not wish to talk at all, so Peter pulls up dinner options on his phone while Eduardo stares out the window. They pass Mayfair quickly enough, but sit in traffic at the King's Road junction.

"Should we try for Le Gavroche, tonight?" he asks, to Eduardo's profile, "or did you want something else."

Eduardo shrugs. He does not seem to care.

"I'll call the concierge," he says, and proceeds to do just that. 

Le Gavroche is fully booked, as he expected it would be, though they can fit them in at the bar.

It is their last night in London -- he would prefer not to. The concierge will make some calls. Yes, a brasserie is fine, as is an early seating. They have a morning flight, better that than the ten o'clock.

Eduardo is nibbling on his thumbnail and staring out the window.

They inch forward in the traffic.

"I told them early was fine," he says, more to say something than to make conversation, really. Eduardo has heard the whole interchange anyways, there's no need to repeat it.

"Is it all right that we go to the Britain collection, though, instead of the Modern?"

"Sure," Eduardo answers, listless.

This would be the point where Peter should be asking if everything is all right, because Eduardo is sullen and withdrawn.

But he does not ask him this question, because he detests what happens when he does.

Eduardo will sit up immediately, like someone has just flicked him with a birch switch and his beautiful, thoughtful, contemplative face will be replaced by a grotesque empty smile that does not reach his eyes and he will start talking, very quickly, about nothing at all, as if he were suddenly direly afraid of silences.

Peter thus makes it a practice not to ever ask Eduardo _is everything all right?_ because of course it isn't.

Eduardo carries so much sadness with him, like a suitcase.

Instead he checks the markets (down in Asia, up in Europe, holding steady in the States), the weather (drizzle in London, hot and cloudless in Dubai where they have a layover, smoggy in Hong Kong), the status of their flight (no changes there), and is scrolling through restaurant reviews when the phone rings.

The concierge can get them seated at a West End bistro, after the pre-theatre rush.   
Peter tells him that will be fine.

The traffic eases up as they make their way to Millbank.

He gets out first and holds the door.

Once inside, they check their coats.

Eduardo takes all of the maps and literature.

He is lost in thought through potraiture and the pre-Raphaelites, and wanders off a few times, his energy restless.

Peter loves the museum, despite the bustle of the shuffling masses, who stand in front of each painting with their heads titled for the appropriate amount of awkwardly reverential time before moving on.

It is a huge museum.

They take a break for coffee, Eduardo stirring his cappuccino first one direction, then the other, then back again.

After this he spends so long looking at the Turner pieces that Eduardo starts to get impatient.

"How much longer?" he whines, looking at the time on his phone.

"Do you want to wait in the bookstore?" he says.

"No,” he says, “Not really."

"What, then?" he asks, a little annoyed.

"Maybe I'll go back to the hotel?" he says. "Work out, get a massage."

"You sure?"

"If you don't mind?"

Peter does not mind.

"I'll text when I'm finished," he says.

Eduardo kisses him goodbye, lightly, on the lips, in front of a picture of the Thames at dusk and then goes off to collect his coat.

There are certainly worse places to be alone.

He spends one and three-quarters of an hour in the museum, and buys Eduardo a heavy book of nothing but Turner  -- with the emphasis on clouds and weather -- before he leaves to spend a silent solitary hour at a pub near Westminster, where he eats steak and kidney pie and drinks half-prints of bitter and struggles through the crossword all by himself.

It does indeed start to rain, just lightly at first, but by the time Eduardo sends him a message round three, it is pouring outside.

 _ Hey, I'm back in the room now. Ex _

He waits five minutes.

The rain does not ease up, however, so he stands, finishes his half, and folds the paper up, tucking it under his jacket so it does not get wet, and goes in search of a cab rank.

Traffic is not too atrocious, considering, so that the crossword still has blank spaces by the time they pull up in front of Brown's.

Back in the room, Eduardo has taken the liberty of ordering tea.

He seems much happier.

"Here," he says, bringing Peter a cup. "Did you miss me?"

"Of course," he answers as he takes a sip, raking his eyes over Eduardo, who is wearing his yoga clothes. His skin is gleaming, and he smells spicy, when he takes the cup away and puts his arms around Peter's neck.

"You smell nice," he says, sniffing first Eduardo's hair and then his shoulder.

Eduardo sniffs his own shoulder.

"It's ayurvedic something or other --  they say it’s supposed to balance the chakras."

"Oh?"

"I think it has clove in it, maybe?"

"It's lovely," he says, and he means it.

"I'll buy some before we leave."

He rubs his hands up and down Eduardo's back.

"You better?"

Eduardo nods, wordlessly.

"What time is dinner?"

"Seven-fifteen."

"Early."

"Sorry."

"S'alright."

"Good."

He hugs him, gently, and after a moment of stiffness he relaxes in Peter's arms.

Then they kiss, Peter cradling the side of Eduardo's face.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Pub," he admits.

"Did you finish the crossword?"

"The crytpic? Mostly."

"Let's finish it."

"And then you can do the Ken Ken?"

"Possibly," he smiles.

Eduardo breaks away and flops down on the bed. Peter strips off his jacket and toes off his shoes, and then clambers into bed with Eduardo, who lies on his chest as they finish the cryptic crossword together, and then Eduardo does the Sudoku and the Ken Ken, although it is Peter who writes in the answers.

Whatever unguents and ointments they have smeared all over Eduardo make him smell intoxicating, like opium or incense. Peter wonders what his skin tastes like. The next time Eduardo leans over to frown at a box with no number in it yet, Peter noses under his hairline and licks the spot underneath his left ear.

He tastes even better than he smells.

Peter lets the pen fall and keeps kissing that spot, licking the traces of oil away.

Eduardo swats at him.

"You're making me lose my concentration!"

"Bollocks to concentration," he growls.

Eduardo rummages around and turns up the pen, and then takes the paper into his own hands, settling himself on his back.

"I want to finish this," he says, leaning back on the pillows.

Peter skirts a hand over his bare leg, and then snaps the elastic waistband of his underwear.

Eduardo sticks the pen in his mouth and pointedly ignores him.

He sits back on his heels and rolls up his sleeves, his eyes moving from Eduardo's knees to his forehead and back again.

 _ Concentration, indeed. _

Eduardo concentrates on numbers, while Peter concentrates on Eduardo's stomach -- the faintest bit hairy, strangely slightly convex -- and then his inner thighs, where there are lines to be licked from one side to the other.

Eduardo alternates between stroking Peter's hair, with the uncapped pen still in his hand, or writing down answers, during which time Peter concentrates on Eduardo's feet, and then his shins, and the underside of his kneecaps.

They chit-chat, while Peter does this.

Eduardo continues to act indifferent.

"I'm thinking I'll get the roast chicken," he says, to Eduardo's hip.

"You are _so_ predictable," Eduardo snorts. "Did your mother feed you nothing but chicken?"

"Not her, no," Peter says, skimming his fingers under the hem of Eduardo's shorts, "but it was what we had on Sundays, for lunch, before I went back to school."

"Still your favourite?" Eduardo teases, his legs widening just a fraction.

"It's what I want for my last meal," he says, "What's yours?"

"Sushi," Eduardo says promptly, and then hisses in a breath when Peter presses against him, through his underwear.

"Ow," he says, kicking his leg.

Peter backs away and Eduardo peeks around the side of the paper.

"Are you all right?" he asks, with concern.

Eduardo blushes.

"I'm sore," he says.

Fuck but if that isn't  _unbelievably sexy._

"Does it hurt?"

Eduardo bites his lip and averts his eyes.

"A little bit."

Peter kisses Eduardo through his shorts, very lightly.

He sighs, so Peter does this several more times.

Eduardo's hand has flopped to the side, still half-heartedly clutching the newspaper. His other hand rests lightly on the crown of Peter's head.

He nuzzles Eduardo and then says, "Can I see?"

Even from between Eduardo's legs he can hear him whimper.

He reaches up to peel off Eduardo's shorts, the lack of response taken as assent.

Eduardo does not stop him, but he does toss his head to the side and close his eyes.

Once Eduardo is bare from the waist down, Peter settles himself between his legs to look.

And then trace over with his index finger.

Eduardo's arsehole is puffy, reddish pink.

"Shall I kiss it better?" he asks, already moving more closely.

Eduardo's hand tightens in his hair.

"Oh," he cries out, when Peter flicks him with his tongue, light like a kitten.

He cannot handle much more than that.

Eduardo is completely smooth, and tastes faintly of sugarcane.

Peter stops every minute or so to make sure Eduardo can handle it.

"Oh fucking _shit_ ," he says, when Peter presses the full length of his tongue against him, "oh, fuck."

And then he relaxes, and his legs fall apart and he shifts restlessly from side to side.

Peter shifts his position and hooks Eduardo's legs around his own upper body.

Two minutes later Eduardo is whispering _fuck yes._

Four minutes later he is screaming it.

Six minutes after that he is begging for _moremoremore._

He gets undressed, and slicks them both up more than either of them normally like.

"Oh," Eduardo cries out, ragged, when he presses inside, so slow, so bloody slow.

He pins Eduardo's hands to the bed and fucks him first gently, and then not so gently, until by the time he comes the bed is rattling in its frame and Eduardo is writhing underneath him, gritting out _harderharderharder_ between his teeth.

Eduardo comes first.

Peter would like to hold out and make him come twice, maybe three times, but he does not want to push him.

Plus, he is so fucking tight.

Eduardo does something, clenches and moans and grabs Peter's arse, and that pushes him all the way in and holds him there, and Eduardo moans again, and then he is well and truly done for.

The paper has been crushed beneath their bodies.

"Damn," Eduardo says, peering at the smeared and torn newsprint. "I was almost done with that."


	5. Chapter 5

He catches his breath, lying flat on his back. Eduardo leans against his shoulder and he puts his arm around him.

Peter dozes in fits and starts.

The bathtub runs.

He rolls onto his stomach.

When Eduardo comes back into the room and starts rummaging around for his clothes, he lifts his head from the pillow and says, "You'd better get started on your packing."

"Ugh," Eduardo says, surveying the disaster zone he has created.  He has covered the couch, the desk, and one of the armchairs with all of his things.

"Can't we just live here?"

"What, here at the hotel?"

"I hate packing."

"You need a better system."

"We can't move here, seriously?"

"London, sure," he answers, "Brown's hotel, no. If we're relocating I'm getting us a terraced flat in Belgravia. We can grow basil in a  
window box."

"You're weird."

"And you need to pack."

Eduardo grumbles while he tries to make everything fit. He curses under his breath, and eventually gives up.

"I need another suitcase," he says, breathing hard.

Peter lifts his head, "Lobby?" he suggests.

Eduardo kicks his suitcase. It echoes with a dull thud.

"Yeah," he says. pulling on a pair of jeans, "I'll be right back."

Peter gets up soon after. It takes him less than fifteen minutes to put everything away, with a bit of room to spare. He is an efficient  
packer, a practice learned on business trips from London to Geneva to Berlin to Moscow to Singapore to Hong Kong.

He is fastening the zip on his rolling case when Eduardo comes back in, laden with yet more carrier bags.

"Jesus, Eduardo," he says, "What now?"

"I bought that massage oil," he answers, holding up the bag, "You're surely not going to be mad about that."

"Ah, well. That's different. Do I get to use it on you?"

"Back in Hong Kong," he answers, cheekily. And then, "We should get a massage table."

Peter laughs.

"It would break within a week," he says.

"True story," Eduardo says, and continues with his packing, putting all his books and magazines into a second suitcase, brand new. It makes the room smell like new leather.

Peter checks his watch and says, "Shit, I'd better hop in the shower."

"I'll get dressed," Eduardo says, opening his old suitcase back up.

Peter has already laid out his clothes for the evening, which he changes into after he showers. Eduardo has, true to form, unpacked  
half of his things in the search for the right ensemble.

His trousers are dark grey, the faintest of pinstripes. Black shirt, tucked in to show off his trim waistline.

"You look nice," Peter says, pointedly ignoring the pile of things that have found their way back onto the floor.

"Sorry about the mess," Eduardo says, near-apologetically.

"What mess?"

"Dinner?"

"Please," he says, getting the door, "I'm ravenous."

Out on the street it is cool and cloudless.

They arrive a little early, but are shown to their table straight away.

It is quaint, candlelit, a little on the naff side.

Eduardo thinks it's cute.

They have champage and foie gras to start.

Eduardo, after some deliberation, gets the mussels.

Peter does, predictably, order the roast chicken, with roast potatoes and petit pois.

They hold hands and drink Côtes de Rhône while they wait for the entrees to arrives.

The waiter is unobstrusive, the chatter around them muted.

"I like it here," Eduardo says.

"The restaurant?"

"London."

"I like it too," he says, after a pause, rubbing his thumb over Eduardo's wrist.

Eduardo shifts slightly in his wooden-backed cafe chair.

"Would you come back here, ever?"

He thinks, for a moment.

"I could," he says, "I suppose."

"Why did you leave, before?"

"Why does anyone?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking."

"Travel, I reckon. The world, work. Exploring?"

"And that's all?"

"That's part of it."

Eduardo nods. He knows what it is like to have to run away.

The waiter arrives with their food, sets the plates down with a flourish.

Peter can smell the garlic, parsley, and white wine from Eduardo's side of the table. He wrinkles his nose and says, emphatically, "I am going to have the _stinkiest_ breath."

"Don't worry, I'll still kiss you," he tells Eduardo, and then leans over to inhale the scent of roast chicken.

"Best smell in the world," he says, picking up his knife and fork.

Eduardo ignores most of his frites in favor of dunking his bread into the broth, so Peter eats them off his plate. A pile of shells and  
bones grows on the side of each plate.

It takes ages to chase down all his petit pois with the tines of his fork.

They order brandy, dessert, coffee.

Eduardo cracks the shell of their crème brûlée. They have just ordered one, to share.

"I love that noise," he says, tapping the back of his spoon against the burnt sugar crust.

"I love you," Peter says, without even thinking about it.

Eduardo is quiet for a moment, spoon frozen mid-air.

"Uh. You too," he says, after a pause, "Sorry, sorry. I mean --"

"It's all right," he says, more than a little hurt.

"You know, right -- I mean, you do -- don't you?"

"I know," he answers. And it's true, he does. He knows.

"Thank you," Eduardo says, quietly.

"No," Peter says, "thank _you_."

Tables are filling up with the second seating of the night.

"It's a few minutes past nine," he says, checking his watch. "Early night?"

Eduardo picks up one of the french fries and studies it before bringing it to his mouth and chewing on it, thoughtfully.

"They've gone stone cold by now," he tells Eduardo, who eats it anyways.

"Yeah, if you want."

He waits for a moment before asking, "Are you finished with your packing?"

Eduardo eats another fry.

"Not really, no."

"Eduardo, honestly--"

"--can we go dancing?"

He rubs his forehead and presses his fingertips to his temples.

"--ouur flight's at eight, we've got twenty hours in the air--"

"--not a club," he interrupts.

"-- not to mention that you'll be hard pressed to find a place that does salsa --"

"-- how about the Ritz?" he says, looking at his phone and smiling.

It's cute. Fuck, not even cute, _adorable_ , truly and genuinely.

"Tourist," Peter says, and Eduardo giggles.

"Please?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely." He waves the waiter over and gets the bill.

He helps Eduardo into his coat. It is drizzling outside. They're going to get wet if they walk.

"It's raining," he says, even as Eduardo is striding off down the street, hands shoved casually in his pockets.

"Eduardo--" he calls after him. Eduardo pivots on his heel. He sticks one leg out and looks up at the sky.

"I don't mind," he says, letting the mist hit his face, "It's better to walk in the rain, sometimes."

"But I haven't got the umbrella. We'll get wet."

He holds out his hand.

"Fuck it. Let's get wet."

And thus they walk, in the rain,  and do indeed get wet, as they go from the West End through Soho down to Picadilly, where they will dance cheek-to-cheek in a dimly lit room decorated in embossed whites and golds and pale greens. Tomorrow they will board a plane and hope for fine weather and no turbulence, for safe passage and no air pockets, praying that no errant birds get sucked off their flight paths and into the engines.

In the air Eduardo will knock himself out; Peter will read the newspaper and take his shoes off, because his feet swell and his shoes pinch.

Because of this he will stay away from alcohol on the plane and drink water, nonstop, so much that he will be unable to sleep for more than half an hour at a stretch because he will have to urinate so frequently.

But tonight, for an hour or maybe two, he will take Eduardo dancing, and then back to the hotel, where they will sleep, next to one another, until such time as the phone rings with a wake-up call, early, always too goddamned early.

That is tomorrow, however.

Tonight they will be tourists. Tonight they will go dance at the Ritz.

~fin~


End file.
